


Doorways

by lferion



Category: Highlander: The Series, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Crossover, Gen, No Spoilers, liminal space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-12 21:53:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5682151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/pseuds/lferion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forces begin to gather for the Last Battle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doorways

**Author's Note:**

  * For [morgynleri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgynleri/gifts).



> Many, many thanks to Zana, Icka and Athena for cheerleading, sanity-keeping and beta checking. Thanks also to Amandr for patience above and beyond once again.
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://hlh-shortcuts.livejournal.com/97760.html).

The powers have a sense of humor. Call them what you will -- gods, valar, natural forces, guardians, dominions, thrones, the manifestation of time-as-space, ceiling cat and basement cat -- their priorities are rarely those of mortals, embodied finite beings, and their perspective less so. Yet it is through people -- finite, physical beings possessing perception and aspiration, the desire to create and the will to pursue fulfillment -- that worlds are made and lost. Myths speak of origins and ends: the Gathering, from which will emerge only one; the breaking and remaking of Arda Marred; Audhumla and Ragnarok, the dynamic, eternal balance of the force of creation and impulse of destruction. Embodied beings live mortal lives, however long their span might be. But the powers have a purpose: that entropy, apathy, despair and nothingness not prevail, but life and love grow and continue, beautiful and terrible and bright in the darkness. 

Serving that purpose, there are those for whom death is not a final exit, others for whom the walls between the worlds are thin, those skilled at battling the enemy by many means -- blade and body, will and word, making and mending. And some there are for whom all those things are true. They, working together in pairs and trios, septads and thrice-threes, will be the forces that win through the Last Battle, Dagor Dagorath, the end of all things, to take up the Work and the joy of making the world anew.

They will come from every branch of the Tree, every kind and kindred, every age and fate. Figures of myth, of fancy, of history will see sundered spirit joined with reforged flesh, be set to wake with comrades, friends unmet. But the Sleepers do not choose their battle-companions; that is where the humour of the powers is most manifest.

The end is nigh, the future uncertain. In the places of dream and possibility, Sleepers begin to wake.

When Rebecca woke (she had not expected to wake, not after the scythe of Luther's blade, though even in that horrible moment she knew that while he might take her quickening, he would have nothing of what truly was of her) it was to the familiar stones of her own fortified house, that had been both abbey and castle, and sacred ground before ever even Romans had set foot in northern Gaul. It felt like that ancient place now, somehow both vibrant with green life, and solid with the steady weight of worked stone. Old and new, even as she was herself. 

She could feel her Quickening bright and electric under her skin, and a touch of a fingertip to the point of the blade she had found in her hands on waking (like an effigy of a knight, formally arrayed was her amused thought) had brought the familiar blue flicker of healing energy. Still -- or again -- Immortal. But while this place was her long-held refuge, it was somehow as unlikely and improbable as her own revival. There were none of the modern conveniences she had installed over the years, no wiring or gas or plumbing. Hypocausts and fireplaces, rain-catchments and a well in the courtyard remained, resurrected as well. 

Oddest of all, it seemed there was nothing beyond the outer walls but a formless mist, by turns grey and dun, sparkling and smokey. Exploring discovered within the walls a flourishing kitchen garden and well-stocked wood-store, smithy and still-room, buttery and wash-house and workshops. Food and fire, shelter and work which to put one's hands. Why, though? For what purpose and by what means? She had yet to see another soul, yet knew in her bones, in the song of her Quickening that she was not alone. Invisible servants? Possibly. Other Immortals? Definitely, though none near (and how she knew that was another mystery). Other people/beings that gathered power and possibility to them, energies that rang in the aether like Quickenings but were something outside her ken? Yes, and close, but oddly not a threat. 

The room where she had awoken had not vanished, though returning to it found not the plinth and marble bier from which she had arisen, but the earliest of her personal chambers, with writing table and curtained bed, clothes-press and linen-chest just as she remembered. No crystal nestled in the locked casket within the chest, though the keys hung at Rebecca's waist, but that was no surprise. Otherwise all was in place, impossibly remade. Ink, paper, books, bed linens, candles, lamps and clothes. What else had been brought back out of the mists of time? It was not a precise moment of history -- several eras were represented spanning at least three centuries. 

Then there were the doorways she did not recognize and could not open, despite the keys. One was high in the tower, carved about with curved shapes that could only be letters or words (dust on her tongue, doubled suns dazzling the eye, green fire in her hands and the cold dark between the stars), of a language she had never seen -- strange enough that possibly even Methos would not recognize them. 

The other was deep in the foundations, where the builders had dug into the hill to set great stones supporting walls and archways, the undercroft of the castle. Some of the rocks were marked with spirals and sun-wheels, patterns of ring-and-dot that were old when Rebecca was young. The five-angled doorway that seemed to lead into the hill itself was banded with runes that teased her eyes, almost familiar. 

Behind both was a sense of energy, of life and vitality and power the equal of any Quickening she had ever felt -- like massed voices chanting in close and eerie harmony, great, deep-toned chimes and horns and drums, the earth itself making music filigreed with steel, threaded with silver and sapphire and obsidian vibrated from the foundation; the vigor and tenacity of root and branch, the scent of rain and sun-warmed wool, wind-in-leaves and the centered stillness of the eye of a whirlwind netted with bronze and brown and green, a glowing fuze rising like sap in spring to fill the tower. 

The force behind the lower door emerged first. A sound more felt than heard brought Rebecca running from her inventory of supplies in scullery and kitchen, taking the stairs down with unwise speed. It was important that she be there for them when the door opened, though she could not say how she knew. Red and gold light was leaking out from the edges of the door, making the runes glow, like firelight around a screen, molten metal in a crucible when she arrived, not quite breathless. She had her sword in one hand, a forgotten jar in the other, as a seam of brighter light split the oak and iron panels in twain. 

For a moment the air vibrated like struck iron and the forge-light flared dazzlingly bright. There was a scent of stone dust and hot metal, an echo as of a vast underground space, a Presence like an earthquake or a rocket launch, then the dazzle and echo winked out, leaving silence and a flicker of candles in a room Rebecca had never seen before. Laid out in midnight blue velvet and silvery ring-mail was a short, broad figure with long dark hair streaked with grey and a close-trimmed beard. Intricate beads tipped deceptively simple plaits that framed a stern and yet somehow vulnerable face. Gauntleted hands were folded over the bone-and-steel hilt of a straight-spined sword that swept a broad curved blade to a point that rested between the engraved steel toe-caps of his sturdy boots. It should have been absurdly large for his height, the fluid lines ought to have clashed with the angled geometry of interlace and rivets, but instead it looked oddly correct, an improbable but perfect key to a difficult lock. 

The harsh sound of first breath drew Rebecca's attention back to his face, where sapphire eyes were studying her with puzzlement. 

"You are safe here," she found herself saying, the sound of her voice a startlement in the silence. She had no idea if he could understand her, but tone would speak as much as words. "I am Rebecca, and this is holy ground." She put her sword down, noticed the jar and set it down too. 

His eyes tracked her movement, fingers tightening briefly on the hilt of his own blade. Then he was off the plinth and standing before her, a brief, regal tilt of his head acknowledging her. "Thorin, son of Thráin, at your service."


End file.
